The Breaking of Tracy part 1 by Mr.Hurt
A sadistic slave trainer and owner has grown bored. But the arrival of a fresh girl has him aching to torture and beat her into the perfect slave. , The Breaking of Tracy
part 1
Awaiting Tracy’s arrival
It’s not enough to just hurt a woman. Years earlier I had tried rape, quite a bit of it in fact. Forcing their legs apart while muffling their screams with a tightly cupped hand over their mouth WAS exhilarating. But it never felt like enough, leaving them there in a fetal position, crying away the shame I’d caused. THAT was what I wanted. To see the shame in their eyes after being violated. That disgust in themselves. Oh, they hated me, but they hated themselves more. Loving and leaving them, as it were, has never been enough for me.
Born into means, I’ve had the wealth to travel the world and do all sorts of things to all sorts of women, and the one thing that truly brings me bliss, that makes me feeling like I’m fulfilling my purpose in life, is breaking women. I’m a slave trader, you see. The moment my father passed away early on in my life I sold off any business interests that remained and settled into a comfortable life only a nine figure bank account can provide. I’ve spent every waking moment creating myself a torturous paradise of sexual slavery. I have a private estate in the wilds of Ecuador which requires a helicopter to access. It houses fifty full time staff, more than half of which are sexual slaves who I have broken and tamed. Personally, I tend not to go for local fare, I prefer to import women from western civilizations. After a few months of hot tempered spite, their will and self worth eventually leaves them altogether. A western woman, once she accepts that the only way for her to not be tortured non stop for the rest of her life it to completely abandon dignity, will cut off a piece of her soul out, leaving little more than a cowed dog. The experience is rewarding. I am currently awaiting my newest specimen.
Tracy was an ivy league woman’s studies major from Boston. I say was because she’s little more than my personal property now. I have a talented and well paid group of kidnappers who scour the world for me, looking for something that might peak my interests. Everything about Tracy makes me hard. The thought of breaking such an uptight bitch is enough to make me cum on the spot. While most of my incoming stock are intended to be sold, a number which amounts to approximately half a dozen women a year, Tracy is special. Tracy is to be mine, and mine alone. I’d been bored recently, unable to get the satisfaction from breaking girls for later sale. I’d been so frustrated I recently whipped one of my personal staff slaves to death.
She’d been trussed up, hanging upside down in my personal discipline dungeon with a ball gag in her mouth, and been flayed over the course of a half hour. Kim, had been her name. I’d renamed her Fuckslit. She’d been a statuesque black woman of 26 years old. Four years earlier she’d been a California law student who’d dreamt of taking on exciting human rights cases. She’d been a favourite of mine. Every time I entered a room, she’d drop to her spread knees with her fingers laced behind her head, mouth open and eyes down, just as she’d been trained to. But anytime I decided to face fuck her, and she always did an enthused job despite the rough treatment I invariably delivered, she’d always have genuine tears on her cheek. She’d accepted her station, but never had she gone emotionally dead. I’d broken her spirit in the truest sense of the phrase. I could always cum hard, secure in the knowledge that I’d made her hate herself. It was a shame to loose her.
I knew early on that whipping her with a bare cat of nine tales would do little to relieve me. It had made me even more frustrated, which led to me taking that frustration out with whippings as hard as I could make them. Soon, the cat of nine tales stopped cutting the flesh of her back and started to tear it. Twenty minutes in I’d bloodied her entire back buttocks and legs, when a stray lash severed the strap holding the ballgag in her mouth. The sound of her unfiltered screams and cries finally got me hard, and I made to conscious decision to continue to the end. I spun her around and re chained her in place. Now facing me, her supple C cup tits cascaded into her face. She begged, something she hadn’t done in four years. In return I continued my work. Her tits, her tight stomach and even between her spread legs all felt my frustration through the cat of nine tales. By the time she stopped making choking noises my dick was swollen purple. Unfortunately the lashing had been a workout and I could barely lift my arm to masturbate. Instead I motioned to The Post, my beautifully scarred whipping attendant, to service me. She dutifully put down the tray of assorted whips on a nearby table and walked over to me, before kneeling on her disfigured knees. The Post was a pet project of mine. I’d whipped and scarred every inch of her to perfection, while also giving her positive reinforcement of sexual gratification through pain. Now, she is my most compliant slave, having literally whipped her will right out of her.
“With your hands, but aim it at the floor.” I’d said to her. Without raising her eyes, her hands slid along my aching shaft.
“Yes daddy. Thank you.” No hesitation, just as she’d been trained. It took only moments for her call out the semen that had been begging for release. At the moment of climax I grabbed a fist full of her hair and shoved her face into my thigh. I moaned and grunted as spurt after spurt landed on the floor next to her. Her thumb gently massaged the underside of the head of my cock, coaxing out the last few drops. She knows me so well.
Finally spent, I let go of her hair. As she let go of my semi hard shaft, and pulled her face away, I slapped her upside the head with all my force. The Post’s head dropped to the ground, inches from my cum puddle.
“Lick it up.” I told her. No sob of pain escaped her, so well trained is she. Instead, she dragged her tongue along the cement floor, cleaning everything up. Finished, she turned her face up towards me, looking for further instructions. I’d noticed then that when I had hit her, I’d bloodied her nose a bit. The sight sent a shiver of joy up through my cock, hardening it once more. I had The Post bring a chair from against the wall to where I stood, and I sat. Again, getting down on bended knees, she started the process of coaxing my cum into her mouth, though this time she kept both hands behind her back, palms cupping her opposing elbows as a sign of obedience. As she used her mouth and tongue like a loving whore, I stared at the bloody mess hanging from the ceiling. Fuckslit was gone. I’d laid my head back and closed my eyes, while sliding deeper into my chair. It took an hour for The Post to eat my cum, which was fine. I reflected on the hole Fuckslit’s death left the estate. I’d need a replacement. Not only to fill the empty position, but breaking a new girl would be the only thing keeping me from doing this again. Hopefully Tracy would fill the void.